


Oliver

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Makes Friends, basically written half-asleep on allergy medication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmeses and their fur-babies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a very small friend while stuck in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not actually joking when I said I wrote this halfway to dropping off on allergy meds. The only editing it's got is spellcheck. Please forgive me.

The only thing more unappealing than snow in November is rain in November. It's one thing to pull his coat tighter around himself and to hide behind his collar when the cold wind blows the dry crystalised water his way, but when it rains, it seems to make a point of following him. The freezing droplets cling to the dark outer layer of the Belstaff and soak through his skin to chill his bones. The neverending puddles are like a game of hopscotch, his feet skirting over and around to avoid wetting his socks. Everybody and their brother chastises him for refusing to carry even the most compact umbrella, but he almost always travels directly to and from his summons by taxi, so he's never seen the point.

This afternoon, however, Sherlock has seen exactly zero free cabs, and in a moment of stubbornness, he decided that the dark clouds above his head wouldn't dare to empty their weight on top of him. It wasn't a far walk home anyway, he reasoned, before setting off on foot. Four minutes into his walk, he felt the first drop, and seven minutes in, he was drenched.

Twelve of twenty-three minutes travelled, Sherlock ducks into an alley to escape the rain for a moment. The eaves of the building behind him jut out far enough from the roof that he has found himself with a foot of shielding, so he stands beside a beat-up bin shed with his back pressed against the wall and shakes some of the water out of his hair. Mostly pointless since he's going to be dripping when he gets home anyway, but he's appreciating the reprieve.

A small whine grabs his attention just as he is about to return to the downpour, and Sherlock turns toward it instinctively. The only thing behind him is the shed, but when he steps back a pace, he sees the creature that wanted his attention. In the space between the shed and the wall is a dog.

No, not a dog. A puppy. Younger than six weeks, Sherlock guesses, some sort of terrier mutt. Yorkshire, by the black and brown colouring of its tiny wet face, possibly poodle on the other side. Scanning the area, Sherlock spots the waterlogged remains of an overturned cardboard box, the dark streaks on the side still readable, offering a litter free to good homes.

“You shouldn't be out here,” he says softly, kneeling down and holding a hand out to the runt. The puppy cowers back into its hole before stepping out slowly with its tail between its legs, its tiny body covered in curly wet fur. It could stand comfortably in one of his hands it's so little.

It sniffs at Sherlock's hand and then ducks its head underneath, asking for affection. The human gladly complies, scratching behind the puppy's folded ears.

When Sherlock takes his hand away and stands, the puppy whines loudly, sitting at his feet and looking up at him pitifully. He takes a step back and the dog cries again, freeing its tail and letting it swish back and forth to keep the human's attention. One more step and the tail stops, dropping back between its legs, accompanied by yet another high-pitched lamentation.

Sherlock turns his back on the mutt but makes no move to leave, his entire being wanting to pick up the sad runt and take it home. He doubts Molly would be happy with the addition, Toby even less so, but...

“Dammit,” he sighs.

* * *

 

She told him to bring an umbrella. She did. It was in vain, again, obviously, but Molly will keep pushing it until he buckles. Because he will, eventually. It's one thing to know how to make him compliant for a day (Step One: get on top; Step Two: profit) but it's another thing to have him realise his mistakes (Step One: let him get rained on; Step Two: profit). Although, a sopping wet detective might be rather nice...

The sound of the front door slamming shut pulls her mind out of the gutter and she rises from her spot by the window to greet Sherlock with an “I told you so.” When he walks in, she can see the trail of water that followed behind him, falling off his coat like tiny waterfalls. He looks like he jumped in a cold lake and then walked home, his arms still clinging to his coat, white hands holding it tight around him. It's not for warmth, though, as she notices a small lump in the chest area of his coat.

“Post?” she says automatically, pointing to the bump Sherlock is cradling. “You wouldn't have needed to do that if you'd brought an umbrella.”

“I'd have done it even if I had brought an umbrella,” he replies through chattering teeth. His expression is almost meek as he looks at her, not miserable like she expected it to be with him walking in the rain. “Please don't be upset.”

Before Molly can respond, Sherlock opens his coat to show her what he had inside. She expected a box of some kind, a book one of them had ordered recently, but instead what she sees is a very small dog, curled up and sleeping soundly. It looks like a fluffier, neater version of a Yorkie, the face and body the right shape and colour but the fur curlier than a Yorkie's would be. It's barely the size of Sherlock's open hand.

“He was the only one left. I couldn't leave him,” Sherlock explains. “He would have frozen tonight.”

Molly crosses her arms and raises a brow at her husband. Inside her head she's calculating how much trouble a dog would be in the flat, considering the little space it would have to play, how Toby would react, how much it would cost....

“What kind of dog is he?”

“Yorkshire terrier and poodle cross.” The way he says it makes her think he's spent time getting to the conclusion.

“What's his name?”

“Why do you think I named him?”

“Because you did.”

Sherlock looks down at the puppy sheepishly and answers, “Oliver.”

“Oliver will have to share Toby's food for tonight,” Molly says, reaching out for the puppy. He barely wakes, only opening his eyes long enough to see the human taking him away from his saviour, before he snuggles against her own chest and going back to sleep.

“Are we keeping him?” Sherlock asks hopefully.

“Why not?” she finds herself saying, her mouth apparently two steps ahead of her rationalising brain. “You already named him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a headcanon for a really long time that if Sherlock were to get a dog it would be something like a Yorkie-Poo. Not just because they're insanely cute but because they're just small enough to be convenient and also imagine him playing with little fuzzy dog like come on.
> 
> Anyway, thanks.


	2. Claw Clipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you've got to let Mum handle the baby's nails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to enjoy thinking about Oliver the dog while I'm half asleep.

As petty as it sounds even in the privacy of her own mind, one of Molly’s absolute favourite things about living with the great Sherlock Holmes is seeing him struggle with the fur-babies. He is constantly at war against Toby, threatening to shave him bald when he sheds all over his chair or steals the best spot on her lap. Once, Sherlock became so impatient with the cat walking on his keyboard that he picked him up and brought him into the bathroom, holding him over the empty tub and promising that next time there would be water, and his hands would be slippery.

Ever since they took in a homeless puppy a month ago, Sherlock has been doing his best to make sure that Oliver and Toby get along. Toby doesn't seem to care about the growing puppy's curiosity, usually lounging close by while Oliver loses his mind about a bird sitting on the rail outside the window. Sometimes he'll lie on a chair and let his tail swish below, encouraging the dog to hop and whine and yip until he burns out. All in all, there hasn't been much work to do there.

Taking Oliver for walks is incredibly easy with his small size, although Sherlock reckons he'll grow out of his stubby terrier legs to get about two feet tall to accommodate the poodle half of his genes. However it goes, neither Molly nor Sherlock minds picking him up when he gets tired a short way from home. The Belstaff's pockets are big enough that, for now, Oliver can sit right inside them, and Sherlock sometimes returns from walks carrying only a leash while the harnessed Yorkie-Poo enjoys the ride in his human's coat.

What Molly didn't expect to be so troublesome was Oliver's dislike of having his feet held. He loves baths and doesn't care either way about going to the vet, but if someone tries to hold his paws...

"Do you need any help?" Molly calls from Sherlock's chair. The man himself is in the bathroom with Oliver and a claw file and very clearly struggling to keep the little dog calm.

"No, we're– Stop– No, Oliver, relax– It'll only take a– Agh!" A second later Molly hears Oliver scratching at the door, and then the rhythmic clicking of his feet after his successful flight from the bathroom. He jumps on her lap just as Sherlock enters the living room looking rather embarrassed that such a small creature managed to get the better of him.

"Please help me," Sherlock mutters.

"Come on, Ollie," Molly says heroically, lifting the near-weightless puppy by the belly and rising from her seat. Sherlock follows quietly and stops in the bathroom doorway as Molly drops to the floor beside the little electric file that Sherlock gave up on.

Setting the little grey and brown fur-baby in her lap, Molly picks up the file with one hand and takes Oliver's left forepaw in the other. Then, with absolutely no resistance from him, she files down his little claws one by one. It only takes a sweet tone to coax Oliver into presenting his other front foot, and again to shift his fuzzy body so she can reach his back legs. The entire process takes less than five minutes, and when she finishes, Molly looks up at her husband smugly.

"Witchcraft," he accuses.

"Respect and patience, love. The more eager you are to get it over with, the more he'll fuss," she explains. Toby used to be hard to clip, and when she decided she'd had enough of his writhing, it was as if he had as well. "You need to show him you know what you're doing."

"Or I can let you do it."

"Or you can let me do it."

Molly pulls herself off the floor and hands Oliver off to Sherlock. Not one to distrust for long, the puppy immediately snuggles up to his human, trying to set his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're magnificent," Sherlock says with a warm smile, leaning in to place a kiss on Molly's forehead.

"I'm a mum," Molly replies proudly, scratching behind Oliver's ears just where he likes. The noise that he makes is the dog's version of a purr, a happy groan to go with his wagging tail. "And if I'm right, it's Dad's turn to take the baby for a walk."


End file.
